


Wolf like Me

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Mages and Templars, Past Anders/Hawke, Sexting, isabela/merrill - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7958755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Fenris, books and plants, mages and Templars, cellphones and booze. Muddling through the events of DA2 in a modern setting. Fenris is Hawke's Watcher, a pseudo-Templar there to make sure Mages stay in line. Hawke is not going to make it easy for him. Or at least, that's what she plans. But plans can change.</p><p>Hawke stands beside Fenris, before that large desk. “Your wrists, please,” Orsino says. Fenris extends his right hand, while Hawke extends her left. Orsino pushes up both of their jackets, exposing their wrists, and presses them against each other. He concentrates for a few moments, his eyes closed as he works the magic, and a red ring slowly appears around their wrists. It almost looks like a ribbon tied. Hawke hisses at the sting of it, Orsino’s magic working its way inside of hers, binding her to Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lovers in Captivity

**Author's Note:**

> Got a curse we cannot lift  
> Shines when the sunshine shifts  
> There's a curse comes with a kiss  
> The bite that binds the gift that gives  
> Now that we got gone for good  
> Writhing under your riding hood  
> Tell your gra'ma and your mama too  
> It's true  
> [We're howling forever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1-xRk6llh4)

“What do you think this one will be like?”

“As weak as the other three hopefully,” Hawke says, sipping at her coffee, “we’ll see how fast I can make this one run.” Isabela chuckles, tightening the belt of her coat. They stand underneath the overhang of the coffee shop, sun high in the sky but rain pouring down without mercy.

“One of these days you’ll find one you like,” she says, watching as Hawke swirls the last remains in the cup and downs it, before throwing it into the trash can.

“A tolerable Watcher? I don’t think those exist,” Hawke replies.

“That’s not fair, you know two.”

“Two that barely count. We’re talking about a Watcher for _me_ , Isi. There’s a track record of suck there,” Hawke smirks. Isabela cocks her head, nodding in agreement. She pulls back the sleeve of her coat, and sighs at the watch on her wrist.

“It’s time to go, sweetheart. You’ll be nice and fashionably late now.” Isabela pulls out the umbrella, a large red thing, and Hawke hunches down underneath it with her. The two women walk side by side, Hawke’s hand in her jacket pocket, turning her phone over and over.

“Kirkwall is shit today,” Hawke grumbles.

“Kirkwall is shit every day,” Isabela corrects. Cars zip by, splashing grey water over the sidewalk, and Isabela quickly switches sides with Hawke. In return, Hawke takes the umbrella from Isabela, straightening up as she holds it. “You shouldn’t be so damn tall,” Isabela says, looking up at her. Hawke only grins.

“You shouldn’t be so damn short.”

“ _I_ am average. _You_ are a freak of nature.”

“Ouch, you’ve wounded my freakish and fragile heart.” Isabela bellows out a laugh, slipping her arm into Hawke’s and leaning into her. Isabela smells of sea salt and sandy beaches, like she was made of something warmer and far better than Kirkwall. Her comforting presence, along with that pat on her arm, helped to calm the butterflies churning in Hawke’s stomach. She grips the umbrella a little tighter.

Isabela twists her body, turning around at the sound of shouting behind them. “Look, excitement!” She cackles. “The Hightown boys fleece another.” A man is charging straight towards them, a bag held tightly against his chest. The second runner is right behind him, the one shouting, their footsteps splashing in the puddles. Isabela and Hawke stand back as the first gets closer. You minded your own business in Kirkwall. But Hawke could stand to delay a little longer.

In one swift movement, she chops the umbrella down, the rod of it landing heavy on the thief’s shoulder, the cloth in his face. He goes tumbling to the sidewalk, Isabela shrieking and gasping as she’s suddenly drenched in rain. Hawke hastily shoves the umbrella back towards her, as she hauls the thief up by the scruff of his neck. “Stealing isn’t very nice,” she scolds. The other one catches up with them quickly, snarling as he rips the bag from the thief’s hands. The instant Hawke lets go of his collar, he’s off, no doubt to steal from someone else.

“I apologize. If I had caught up with him sooner, you would not have needed to intervene,” his voice is low as he’s fiddling with the bag, rifling through it, before slinging it over his shoulder. When he looks up, Hawke is caught by the deepest, greenest eyes she’s ever seen. Her mouth gapes open and closed like a fish, before she shoves her fists into her jacket pockets.

“It wasn’t any trouble. You see shit like this all the time,” she says. She’s back to flipping her phone, a nervous habit, as he pushes up the glasses that were slipping off his nose. He’s an elf, a damn attractive elf. He’s got a shock of white hair, the barest hint of tattoos on his chin, running down his neck and re-appearing on his hands. He coughs as he shuffles on his feet, hand hard on the strap of his bag. She can practically feel Isabela’s grin digging into the back of her neck.

“Thank you. I – ah – must go. I am late for something. Thank you again,” he rubs the back of his head, fingers through damp hair, before turning and jogging down the sidewalk. Hawke watches him go, barely noticing Isabela sliding up beside her, that red canopy appearing over Hawke’s head.

“Maker, the ass on that elf. ‘It wasn’t any trouble’? It’s been so long you really have forgotten how to flirt.” Isabela fakes a gasp, clapping a hand over her mouth. Hawke grabs her wrist and gently smacks Isabela in the face with her own hand. Isabela laughs as she links arms with her again, passing back the umbrella. “You can always practice with me.”

“I don’t need practice, I can flirt just fine, thank you very much.” Isabela keeps the conversation light and flowing, filling in for Hawke’s silence the closer they get to the city buildings. The Gallows. The Circle. Tall and imposing even next to the impressive City Hall building, the Gallows are exactly how they sound. The doors are large and unwieldy things, Hawke holding one open as Isabela shakes out the umbrella and folds it back down to size. Their footsteps echo in the hall against the stone beneath their feet as they approach the front desk.

“Hi, yes. Temporary Watcher signing in a Mage? They’re expecting her,” Isabela says. Isabela waits while the secretary looks them up, Isabela giving details when prompted. Hawke taps her fingers on the desk as Isabela signs them both in, the secretary side-eyeing Hawke with cautious wariness. Isabela sighs as she passes the clipboard and pen back to the secretary. Her eyes scan the pages, and finding no fault with it, she tucks it under her arm and nods.

“If you’ll follow me,” the secretary prompts them both, back straight and stiff as she leads them down a corridor. The Gallows are almost windowless, the only light that buzzing of electric noise that seems louder and louder to Hawke the closer they get to the Hearing room. The secretary directs them to sit in the small and uncomfortable metal chairs outside the room. “They’ll call you in shortly.” She places the clipboard into a slot, then with a turn of her heel, she’s off.

Hawke sits hunched, arms crossed and legs extending, fingers tapping against her arm as she listens to the clock tick above her. Isabela sits straight and neat, tapping out some message to Merrill no doubt. She leans her head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, at those humming lights, and tries to block out that ticking in her ear. It’s heavy in the silence, nothing to look at but stone and art of past Templars. Mighty and noble heroes, protecting the innocent from the evil Mages. It makes Hawke want to laugh.

Hawke turns, scrambling to sit up as one of the doors to the room open. “Ah, yes, Miss Hawke? We’re ready for you now,” he says, that clipboard in his hands. Hawke stretches as she stands, Isabela placing a hand on her back, giving her a warm smile.

“Let me know how it goes. Text me later,” she tells Hawke softly as they hug, before she gives a small wave and leaves Hawke alone with the Templar. Hawke takes her place beside the Templar as they enter. It’s a simple room, a large desk with three chairs behind it and a single one in front. That one is for her. The Templar takes the far left seat, smiling at her as he links his hands together.

“You’re new,” she says as she takes her seat, phone flipping over and over in her pocket.

“Oh. Yes, I – ah – was just transferred here. From Kinloch. I’m the new Knight-Captain, Cullen. Pleased to meet you, Miss Hawke.” Hawke makes a short whistling noise.

“Knight-Captain, eh? But you’re so young.”

“Ah, well, the Knight-Commander felt that I –” Cullen jumps slightly and stops talking when the door swings open. Meredith brushes past Hawke, taking her place in the middle seat, dropping down the book in her hands with a heavy thud. Orsino at least smiles at Hawke when he takes the last empty seat, a smile of recognition. Trying to assure her. Hawke keeps her eyes fixed on Knight-Commander Meredith.

“Hawke. Officially branded a troubled Mage. I hope this is the last time we have to assign a Watcher to you,” Meredith says sharply, opening the book and adjusting the glasses on her face. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, her suit smart and practical, lips clamped together in a thin line. Her finger scans down a page as she reads, Meredith’s eyes flicking up to Hawke as she speaks. “Insubordination. Misuse of Magic. Assault of a Templar. Disorderly conduct. Trespassing. Vandalism. If the Viscount, Grand-Enchanter Orsino and the Guard-Captain had not spoken for you, you’d be in the Circle already.”

Hawke can’t help the wide smirk that works its way across her face. She was far from ashamed from the things she’d done. Far from afraid of Meredith’s wrath. Orsino rubs his face as he speaks, his hand hiding the smile that lurks underneath. “This new Watcher… play nice Hawke. This is your last chance,” he says after he coughs away the amusement from his voice, an earnest plea to her.

Meredith turns to Cullen, “fetch the boy.” Cullen rises to his feet, heading to the door, stiff and no longer smiling at Hawke. Opinions tended to change when they heard the list of past charges against her. Assault of a Templar was a particularly good one to get the whole of the Order hating her. Orsino was at least still amused, leaning back in his chair while Meredith stays as still as the stone around her. Hawke plays with the zipper on her jacket, metal cool between her fingers, bored as she waits.

“This way,” she hears as the door opens, and she turns her head to see Cullen guiding in a man. An elf. An elf with a shock of white hair. Glasses on his face. Tattoos on his chin. Bag still slung over his shoulder. Hawke’s mouth drops open in disbelief. His eyebrows raise when he sees her, as surprised as she is, staying by Cullen’s side as he walks in.

“This is Fenris, your new assigned Watcher. You know the rules already. Your Watcher is here to protect you. An arm of the Templars, you are to treat him as though he is a Templar. Obey your Watcher. Stay with your Watcher,” Meredith rattles it off with practiced ease as she stands. “We’ll now give you both your marks. Your mark will tell your Watcher when you are using magic, and if the distance between the two of you grows too great.”

Her eyes narrow as she looks at them. “You are not friends. You are Mage, and Watcher. Templars will be by to check in on you, and your Watcher will make regular reports. Relationships between Mage and Watcher are forbidden. You are colleagues and that is all. I expect you both to abide by the rules. We of the Templars would like this union to be a success.” That she directs at Hawke, frowning slightly.

Hawke stands beside Fenris, before that large desk. “Your wrists, please,” Orsino says. Fenris extends his right hand, while Hawke extends her left. Orsino pushes up both of their jackets, exposing their wrists, and presses them against each other. He concentrates for a few moments, his eyes closed as he works the magic, and a red ring slowly appears around their wrists. It almost looks like a ribbon tied. Hawke hisses at the sting of it, Orsino’s magic working its way inside of hers, binding her to Fenris.

She pulls her hand away, shaking the sleeve back down, holding it to her chest as she steps away with a scowl. Fenris regards it curiously, a tattoo atop his tattoos, rubbing it cautiously with his other hand. Meredith stands, closing the book on the desk and picking it up. “You’re dismissed. The next time you stand here Hawke, it will be because you’re being sent to the Circle,” Meredith warns. Hawke yawns. Her phone flips, flips, flips.

* * *

Hawke says nothing to Fenris while they wait for the taxi. Hawke says nothing to Fenris while the taxi drives them to her home. Hawke says nothing as she shrugs off her jacket, hanging it up in the foyer closet. She stretches out her hand, motioning for him to give her his jacket. He does as she wordlessly asks, slipping it off and passing it to her. She finally speaks when they enter the living room. “So, where’s your stuff? I have the spare bedroom set up for you.” A Watcher always stays with their Mage. Fenris shrugs, his hand over his bag.

“This is all I have,” he says as he unties his shoes. He places them neatly by the door, his toes wriggling in black socks. Black jeans. Black jacket. Black t-shirt. Hawke quietly assesses that he has a theme. With his jacket off now, she can see the gentle white tattooed lines that crisscross down his arms over olive skin.

“Well that makes moving in easier, I guess,” Hawke says as she leads the way into the living room. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen if you’re hungry,” she says as she points in the kitchen’s general direction. Fenris follows her politely and quietly, eyes scanning over her things. Her house is kept neat and tidy, everything in their proper place. He wonders if she cleaned it before he arrived. He follows her as she shows him the study (bookshelves covered head to toe), her bedroom (messier than the rest, with more color), and his new bedroom (clearly belonged to a woman before him. The pillows are frilly).

Hawke stands in the doorway as he places his bag on the bed, scratching her chin, thinking quietly to herself. “Suppose I’ll have to show you where I work tomorrow.”

“Thank you Hawke. I, ah, would ask for your patience with me. This is all very new.”

“You’ve never been a Watcher before?”

“I have not.”

“So why start now?” She asks it almost like a demand, crossing her arms. Hawke is tall, taller than him, but slight in frame. He tenses, as the red around his wrist heats. There’s magic bubbling under her skin, and he isn’t afraid to defend himself. “Unless you like having someone under your thumb.” Her blue eyes are clear, vibrant, and angry. Clearly the Watcher arrangement was not something she enjoyed. Freckles dotted across her face, black hair wild and short around her head, stray wisps crossing over her face. “You’re all the same, you Watchers, think you’re doing good but you’re all sadistic little shits –”

“Hawke,” he interrupts. “Regardless of your feelings towards me, I have a duty. Perhaps you could refrain from judging me until after you get to know me.” She scoffs and turns, heading towards her bedroom, closing the door behind her with a slam. He sighs, sitting on the bed, reaching into the bag to pull out a small folder. He opens it, beginning to read the reports inside. _Marian Hawke. Mage. To be considered extremely dangerous. Use of force is recommended_.

Hawke leans against her bedroom door, pulling her phone from her pocket. She slides open the lock screen with her thumb, pulling up her messages. Tapping lightly, she fires off a brief message to Isabela.

|| **Hawke** : _You’re not going to fucking believe this_.


	2. Fuel to Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why do you do that?” He asks, pointing at her phone. She looks at him, startled, and then at the phone, which drops down into her hand. It’s almost like she didn’t realize she was doing it. She sits up, shrugging.  
> “Habit, I guess. Does it bother you? The –” she raises her marked wrist and waves it at him.  
> “Not particularly. It will take some getting used to,” he says, absentmindedly looking at it.

He wakes in a cold sweat, just before his alarm. He lies there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, running a hand through his hair and forcing his eyes closed. He reaches for his phone, the light blinding in the dark of the room, and turns off his alarm. He raises his hand above him, and stares at the wrist marked red. It’s warm, a sign that Hawke is nearby. There’s a thrum underneath, evidence of her using magic. Fenris rolls out of bed reluctantly, still in the same shirt he was wearing yesterday. He pulls up his jeans from the floor, tugging them on, and then puts on one sock after the other.

He stares at himself in the mirror over the dresser, sighing as he takes his glasses, holding them loosely in his hand. When he opens the door, he can hear Hawke’s voice softly carrying up from downstairs. “Yeah, Varric, I will be. It’s just a feeling. No, no, I’ll be careful. Ha! I’ll figure it out. I give it two months, tops. Yeah, yeah.” The floor creaks on his first step, and instantly Hawke goes silent. “I have to go. Text me with what you find. I will. Okay. Bye.”

He makes his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him and turning on the tap. He splashes water on his face, drying his face with whatever towel he can find. He puts on his glasses, blinking once, twice, as everything comes into focus. Fenris squats down, opening the cabinet doors, rifling through what he finds. Nothing unusual – extra shampoo, soap, bandages, what have you. He pulls back the shower curtain and finds the same. Nothing in the medicine cabinet either. Why would she hide anything where he could find it anyway?

He makes his way down the stairs, footsteps soft and light but the stairs creak under his weight anyway. An older home, small and quaint, still large enough for a family. The profile received revealed she had a brother in the Grey Wardens. Father and sister, deceased. A mother living elsewhere – why not with Hawke? She’s sitting on the couch when he makes his way to the ground floor, and her eyes flick up over her book at him. Her phone is beside her, floating on nothing, turning in the air. Her hand is underneath, fingers moving in time with the flipping. Waste of magic.

He opens the fridge door and finds it almost empty. A few boxes of microwaveable meals. Fruit starting to go rotten. Bottles of alcohol line the bottom shelf. He opens the pantry and finds more of the same. Spices and baking supplies, but no real food. He rubs his brow, leaning against the kitchen counter. She leans in the doorway, phone still turning in the air, watching him carefully with those icy blue eyes. “What are you looking for?” She asks.

“Food,” he grumbles. Her phone drops into her hand, and she swiftly tucks it into the pocket of her tight, and ripped, jeans. The thrum in the mark stops instantly. Her shirt is clearly old, well-worn, with a singular hole near her left hip. The freckles that dot her face also line her arms. She opens the fridge door and bends over, tucking stray strands of short black hair behind her ear. Without it in the way, he can see the piercings that line it. She makes her way towards him, pressing a microwave meal to his chest. Even without wearing her shoes – boots? Like she needs more height – she still towers over him. He catches the box and his lips thin in distaste.

“You don’t like it, then go shopping,” she says, shrugging. She watches as the tips of his ears redden.

"The Templars will be paying me next week,” he says, quietly. She sighs, taking the box from him and putting it back in the fridge. She stands before him, scrutinizing him, and she pinches at his shirt.

“Same as yesterday?” He nods. _Fuck_. When did he even get to Kirkwall? It’s like he was dumped on her doorstep, Hawke thinks. It would be easy to hold this over him. Better even, to do that, get him to hate her. He’d request a transfer, just like the last Watcher she had. There was something in the way he looked away from her, the warmth in the mark around her wrist, the way his hands gripped the kitchen counter. She steps away from him, and the grip he has relaxes. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

“Well, that settles it. We’ll go shopping. Food _and_ clothes. My treat,” she says. His cheeks color slightly, the tips of his ears an even more vibrant red. He doesn’t look at her, instead his eyes drift to the floor just next to her feet. She’s wearing two differently colored socks, with little mabari printed on them.

“That is – I cannot. As I told you, I will not receive my paycheck until next week. Thank you for your generosity Hawke, but I am content to wait,” he tells her.

“You really don’t have anything, do you?” She asks curiously, and he shakes his head slightly.

“The move to Kirkwall was… unplanned.” _No shit_ she almost wants to say. Who moves somewhere with only a bag to their name?

“Can you cook?” His eyebrows rise, and his gaze finally returns to her face.

“Ah, yes, I can.” A grin spreads across her face, and he takes care not to flinch when she places her hands upon his shoulders.

“How well? I mean like, can you cook or can you _cook_?” He’s suddenly indignant, as if offended she could call into question his skills.

“I went to culinary school. I know how to _cook_.” She laughs, and shakes him in delight, her hands still not having left his shoulders. He’s taken along with her happiness, watching as she grins.

“Perfect! I’ll buy the food and you’ll cook. We’ll call it payment for your services. Good enough for you?” He opens his mouth to reply, but her hands move abruptly to either side of his face, clapping him lightly on his cheeks. She turns with a pleased huff. “Excellent. Clothes first, yeah?” He follows her to the foyer, as she pulls down her jacket and his. She throws his at his chest, then shrugs on hers. Black leather, with a red sweater inside, she adjusts the hood to it sits flatly at her back. She grabs her wallet and keys from the nearby holder, shoving them into her pockets. They sit side by side on the stairs as she ties her boots, and him his old shoes.

She keeps her hands in her jacket pockets as they walk to the bus stop together. The buds on the trees are a vibrant green, a sure sign that spring is in full force. She leans against the glass of the bus shelter, watching as he takes his place beside her. She cocks her head as she turns to him, still leaning against the glass, frowning as she asks him, “you’ve read the files they have on me?” He startles slightly, unaware that she even knew of its existence. She grins and withdraws one hand to wave it in the air, “the last Watcher left his all over the damn place. It was far too tempting to not read it.”

“Anyway, since you’ve read it, you know I’m not… well, I have a lot of money. Most people just outright accept whenever I offer to buy them something,” she says.

“I am uncomfortable with being in someone’s debt,” he tells her. She nods sagely.

“I get that.” She produces tickets enough for the both of them, her hands tapping against the bars as she stomps to the end of the bus, finding a seat for both of them. She crosses one leg over the other, foot tapping to some imaginary beat. She barely has to look out the window to know exactly where they are, but Fenris is far less certain. He’s following her lead and he’s not quite sure where he’ll end up. It’s comfortable enough, sharing silence with her, when there is silence to be had.

She’s humming under her breath, or turning to ask him questions. “So, white, hmm? Not the color I would’ve chosen, but it suits you,” she says. He wrenches his head away from her when her hand reaches for his hair, a grin on her face. “Fine, fine, I’ll try and keep my hands to myself,” she says, raising them up with her palms out, before shoving them back into her pockets. The bus jostles, and she ends up shoved tight against him. She laughs as he readjusts herself, but she’s quiet soon after, looking at him with a questioning eye. Why could she hear the faintest of music when she was close to him?

They weave through the crowd after getting off the bus, Hawke walking with her shoulders squared and head high, able to see over the others. She walks with ease, and he walks behind her as she parts the crowd without even realizing she’s doing it. The mall is white, crisp, clean and with the dullest of music playing. She steers him to the left, starting their walk, and she bends over to grin at him. “Where do you want to start?”

He stares down the corridor, past laughing families and kissing couples, at the glittering signs and storefronts and looks back at her helplessly. She leads the charge once again, with a smile, nudging him with a shoulder towards certain stores. He looks at the racks of clothes, feeling awkward and uncomfortable as he waves away the help of the store employee. Hawke is humming behind him, thumbing through the racks. She’s picking shirts from the rack, examining them, holding them up against him and evaluating. She puts a few back. She holds the others.

He takes only one, a plain black t-shirt on sale, and moves towards the counter. With an eye roll and a “you didn’t try anything on,” she turns him around. She flags down an employee, giving her the stack of clothes in Hawke’s arms. She hangs them in a dressing room, telling Hawke that she’ll be there if she needs her. Hawke is polite, gracious, and turns to Fenris with a grin. “You have to show me each and every one,” she says. He looks at her with a frown.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” she says. No time for protestations, she pushes him in. She takes a seat on the bench across from the fitting room, crossing her leg over the other and tapping her foot to another imaginary beat. She feels for her phone in her pocket, quickly checking it for messages. She clicks it on and off, but that doesn’t summon the messages she wants. Instead she watches the letters at the bottom of the screen flicker. Slide to unlock. If only it were that easy with Fenris, to gleam the information she wants from him.

The phone slides back into her pocket as the door creaks open slowly, and he’s still re-adjusting his glasses. “Green looks good on you,” Hawke says approvingly, her fingers tapping her chin. It’s tight, and V-necked, and she can see the delicate white lines in his olive skin that disappear under the collar. They move down his arms, onto his hands, and when she stands, she can’t help but reach for one. Her finger traces a singular line down over a knuckle, his finger, until he wrenches it away from her.

He’s frowning, _mad_ , but the tips of his ears are red like he’s embarrassed. She disarms him with a grin. “Right, keep my hands to myself, sorry. You still have more to try on, go, go,” she says as she shoos him back in, practically flopping back onto the bench. He shows her each and every one, and she either approves or promptly sends him back in. She does this in every shop she takes him to, and his unease grows with every bag she adds.

“Hawke,” he says, “I do not mean to sound ungrateful but –”

“But you’re going to power through anyway? Come on, we have one last stop,” she says, turning into a store and heading straight to the back. “Are you a briefs man, or boxers?” She grins as she holds up a pair, sticking her finger through the hole in the front.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” he grumbles, “please do not buy underwear for me.” His cheeks turn red and he closes his eyes as she cackles out laughter.

“Fenris, come on, don’t be shy. We’re going to be doing laundry together, I’m sure you’ll see plenty of my underwear in time. Do you want the smiley face or the elephant?” He drops the bags he’s holding to rip them both out of Hawke’s hands, placing them back on the shelf, giving her the bags and steering her out of the shop.

“Wait here,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Let me know if you want my opinion!” She calls after him. All she gets in return is an irritated grunt. He clutches a small bag in his hands when he re-emerges, shoving it into another, and larger bag.

“What do you like to drink? Oh – do you want a muffin? I’m _starving_.” She cuts through any awkwardness with ease, pretending that it isn’t even there.

“I – I wouldn’t know what to order,” he automatically replies. She passes him the bags in her hands when they reach the food court, sliding up to the counter with an easy smile and an order ready. They pile the bags on one side of the table, and Fenris takes his place opposite her when they sit. She slides him a cold drink and a bag with a chocolate muffin. He takes a sip to find some sort of iced coffee, something she is drinking rapidly.

“Maker, I needed that,” she says with a contented sigh. “So,” she leans forward, balancing her chin on her hands, “what do you do for fun?”

“Excuse me?” He chokes this out, swallowing the bite of the muffin he took. She sits back and laughs, fingertips tapping on the table.

“Fun. I’m sure you know what that is. What do you like to do?”

“I enjoy reading.”

“That’s it? Nothing else? For instance,” she says, “I like drinking. Dancing, games, movies, talking to people,” her wrist winds in circles as her sentence trails off, prompting him to offer more. He only shrugs. “I’ll find something,” she says with a smile. They take a cab home, sitting amongst all the bags, and Hawke helps carry them to his room. She throws herself onto his bed as he begins to hang things, settle things into drawers, and he feels the thrumming in his wrist again. Sure enough, when he turns, she’s staring at the ceiling, one leg bent and the other crossed over it, her phone turning in the air above her palm.

“Why do you do that?” He asks, pointing at her phone. She looks at him, startled, and then at the phone, which drops down into her hand. It’s almost like she didn’t realize she was doing it. She sits up, shrugging.

“Habit, I guess. Does it bother you? The –” she raises her marked wrist and waves it at him.

“Not particularly. It will take some getting used to,” he says, absentmindedly looking at it.

The grocery store is near enough to walk to, and it is here that Fenris can lead. She leans over the cart, trailing behind him as they slowly make their way through the aisles. He inspects everything closely, and she’s not quite sure what constitutes as acceptable to him. “I suppose I should ask if there is anything you dislike,” he looks up at her suddenly, holding a large onion in his hands, as if finally realizing he wasn’t just shopping for himself.

“Haven’t met a food I didn’t like yet,” she tells him and she’s taken aback when a small smile spreads across his face. “Hey. Hey!” She instantly points at him, coming around the cart to stand closer to him. “I saw that.”

“So you can smile,” she says, the evidence still at the corner of his lips. He’s bagging garlic and turning away from her, but she puts her hand on his shoulder. “It looks good on you, you should do it more often.”

“Someone once told me that I should not smile, and that being serious looked better on me,” he tells her as he ties off the bag and puts it into their cart.

“That seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf,” she says and she’s surprised again when he _giggles_ , and attempts to cough it away. She starts with a guffaw which eventually turns into a laugh, her fist wound into his shirt as she doubles over. “Holy shit! You giggled!”

“I did not!” She’s practically shaking him with a ‘ _did too_ ’, and she’s still laughing even when he sends her away to find eggs. He watches as her back gets further away, rustling a hand through her choppy dark hair, bending over as she peers through the glass at the different cartons. He watches her pull her phone from her pocket, take a quick glance at it, and then quickly look back at it for a longer one. She straightens, her phone close to her face as if she can’t believe what she’s reading.

|| **Varric** : _I looked up what you asked. Everything about this kid is sealed up double tight, but from what I could find, it looks like he murdered a mage when he was in Tevinter. I don’t like this Hawke, be fucking careful._

Fenris can see her look back, her eyes finding him, expression horrified. She grabs whatever carton she can find, putting it into their cart. He cocks his head at her, confused as she keeps a distance from him. “Is something wrong Hawke?” He asks, voice low and concerned, stepping towards her. She shakes her head as she steps back.

“Everything’s fine. Almost done, yeah?” She pays for their groceries quickly, and she practically marches back to the house. Fenris has to practically jog to keep up with her, her long legs providing a distinct advantage. She leaves the bags on the floor of the kitchen before bounding up the stairs, taking them by two, and slamming the door to her room closed behind her. She leaves him standing there, mystified and wondering what he’s done wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dears! <3 Hope you enjoyed!  
> If you'd like to chat, I'm always available at [my tumblr ](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)  
> Cheers!


	3. Hanged Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why is someone like you working for the Templars?”   
> “Someone like me?”  
> “Someone so cute.”

“I mean, he hasn’t done anything to even suggest he’d do anything like what Varric told me,” Hawke says, rubbing her arm awkwardly. She’s hunched over, her head close to his, talking in a low tone. “Not that Varric knows details, only just that it happened.”

“Do you need us to come stay with you? I’m sure we could find a reason.”

“You know I can take care of myself.”

“That’s true. I’m honestly more worried for him than I am about you.”

“Jerk,” she says, punching Anders in the arm lightly. He fakes grievous injury and rubs his arm, all while giving her a smile. “Anyway, that’s not what we’re here for.” She reaches for him, suddenly serious, her hands on his shoulders. “Tell me what you’ve found out about Karl.”

“Those two are the exact same kind of trouble,” Nathaniel grumbles, sitting at one of the coffee shops tables with Fenris, watching Hawke and Anders talk. They’re a distance away, as far from their Watchers as possible. Fenris has his hands around the coffee mug, enjoying the warmth on his hands. “Like two peas in a pod. How long do you think you’ll be able to take Hawke?”

“Excuse me?”

“Her first Watcher in Kirkwall lasted all of a couple months. Nearly ripped his hair out trying to deal with her. She was wilder back then, angrier, and drove him up a wall. Her second stayed the longest. I guess she took it as a challenge. Eventually, she went on holiday and never came back. Said Kirkwall was too stressful. They sent one of their meanest to Hawke after that. She had him sobbing like a child within a month. So how long do you think you’ll last?” Nathaniel takes a long sip of his coffee, twisting a napkin in his other hand.

Fenris studies Hawke, the concerned frown on her brow, the way she speaks with such concerned hands on Anders. She gives him a bleak smile as she tucks the hair that’s escaped from his bun behind his ears. She cups his face and Fenris can see the words she’s telling him are firm, full of resolve. Anders frowns, his hand on her wrist, nodding at what she’s saying. His expression becomes fiercer, until he’s as determined as she.

Their closeness and the way they spoke suggested an intimate relationship. His finger traced the mouth of his mug. How long would he last? “As long as I need to,” Fenris tells Nathaniel. Nathaniel snorts in return.

“A reasonable answer. Templars have something over you?” Fenris looks up, eyes wide and startled. “It was just a guess. You’re not the only one,” Nathaniel says. Fenris says nothing at that, returning to a deep frown, staring into the darkness of the steaming coffee. He takes a few burning gulps, his gaze moving back to Hawke and Anders. What were they talking about that they needed to stand so close?

Anders was wearing an oversized shirt, comically large on his thin frame. It was ratty, worn, with many holes and scratches. His jeans fared no better, and his shoes were practically falling apart. His strawberry blonde hair was half out of the loose bun at the back of his head, messy like the stubble on his face. He was relatively non-threatening, his hand scratching at the red ring around his left wrist (same as Hawke’s, opposite from his, same as _Hawke’s_ ). Two mages whispering together. Nathaniel didn’t seem to mind. Hawke was chattering away, her hands moving with her words.

She’d barely talked to Fenris for a week. Ever since their grocery trip, she had been quiet, moody. Every so often, she’d fix him with an intense look, her lips pursed, as if deciding whether or not to speak to him. He’s decided not to ask her about her reluctance, her sudden withdrawal from him after it seemed like they were making progress. She makes offhand comments about how much she likes his food, and how lucky she is to have him cook for her. There’s something in the way she says lucky that makes it sound sinister.

“He says tomorrow night then we’ll meet him tomorrow night. I think I can slip away without him noticing. Let’s go to the Hanged Man tonight, yeah? Bit of alcohol to help calm the fact we’re walking into a trap,” Hawke tells Anders.

“You don’t have to come, Hawke.”

“Why would I let you go all by yourself? Maker Anders, I’m coming with you. Idiot,” she punches him lightly again. Anders slides into the chair next to Nathaniel, completely at east, while Hawke is stiffer beside Fenris.

“Hey,” Nathaniel turns to Hawke, “did you give him your number?” He asks this while pointing at Fenris. Hawke leans back in her chair with a fake pout. “I knew it. Give him your damn number, stop being such a stubborn ass.” That grumpy look doesn’t leave her face even as she pulls the phone from her pocket. She slides it open, opening her contacts. Fenris pulls his phone from his own pocket and she sputters into a laugh.

“Is that a flip phone?” She practically rips it from his hands as she looks at it, “this thing is ancient!” Fenris takes it back from her roughly while she laughs. “Tell me your number,” she says, still chuckling. He rattles it off clinically, and she enters the numbers into her phone with a smile.

|| **Unknown** : _This is me_.

His phone vibrates with her message, and he quickly saves the contact before shoving his phone back into his pocket. “We’re thinking Hanged Man tonight,” Hawke says as she does the same, leaning back in her chair. “Fenris has never been and he needs to see the best pisshole in the city.”

“You say that like the entirety of Kirkwall isn’t a pisshole. Sounds good though, I need a damn drink after the week we’ve had. Had us working ridiculous fucking hours,” Nathaniel grumbles.

“They work at the hospital. Overworked, underpaid and underappreciated nurses,” Hawke explains to Fenris with a smile. “I appreciate them,” Hawke coos.

“Sometimes I feel you’re the only one who does,” Anders says. “Not even our patients give two shits about us. Well except for yo-”

“Sorry people are assholes!” Hawke cuts in loudly, giving Anders a small frown and a turn of her head. “We should go. I promised to show him the store, and I figure I should probably do that before he thinks it doesn’t actually exist.” Fenris neatly collects his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as Hawke stands. She gives Nate a warm hug, and presses a kiss to the top of Anders’s head before they leave. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweater as she walks beside Fenris.

“You are, well, you do not need to work. So why do you?” Fenris asks her, watching as she shrugs her shoulders.

“Boredom? I have friends that work there, so that means I get to see them almost daily. It’s a bookstore, so I get first pick at new books that come in. Plus it’s usually boring as shit for the Watchers who have to babysit me there,” she says, turning to him and grinning.

“Hawke, I understand you have had some difficulty with Watchers in the past. If you have an issue with the way I have been doing my duty, I am more than open to suggestions on how to improve. You have been… uneasy, of late. If I have offended… I did not do so on purpose. Please tell me and I will do my best to fix it.” She stops in her tracks, slowly turning to him. He stops as well, his hand tight around the strap of his bag.

“Change of plans,” she says, “we’re going home.” She’s off, practically marching down the street in a huff, and Fenris has to walk twice as fast to keep up with her long strides.

“Hawke, I –” What blunder had he made this time? She practically shoves him through the front door, kicking it closed behind them, still marching straight to the living room. She paces, her hands waving wildly as she has a mental conversation with herself. Fenris stands in the hallway, watches, and waits.

“How did you kill that mage?” She asks suddenly, whirling to face him, her arms crossed.

“What? How did you - you have no – you have no right to pry into my life,” Fenris says, hot and angry, his hands curled into fists. That was private. That was supposed to be hidden! No one was to know. They promised that no one was to know. How much _did_ she know?

“You have a portfolio that tells you everything about my life!” Her fist beats against her chest as she yells at him. “I have been watched from the moment my magic manifested. Every detail, every error is in some goddamn report. Watchers know everything about their mages but you’re strangers to us. And they expect us to be fine with it. Well I’m not. So yeah, I tried looking into you but there’s nothing. You’re like a damn ghost except for this rumor that you _murdered_ one of us. How am I supposed to trust you?”

“It was an accident! It wasn’t my fault – I didn’t mean – I tried to save… but I couldn’t,” Fenris says, his hands on either side of his head, bending down close to the floor, his trembling hands moving over his head. “It was an accident,” Fenris says again, still in that protective stance, still repeating those words and Hawke realizes he’s having a damn panic attack. She softens instantly, all the wind out of her sails. She bends down, kneeling across from him.

“Okay,” she says softly, “it was an accident.” He flinches when she touches him, her hand light on his shoulder. He inhales sharply when she pulls him forward, his head resting on her shoulder while she rubs his back. “Breathe,” she tells him. She’s rubbing soft circles with one hand, the other scratching lightly at his head. “Everything’s alright. I’m sorry for prying.”

“It is fine,” he says, his voice strained, “I understand your reasons.”

“When, _if_ , we can call each other friends, trust each other, I’d like to know exactly what happened, if that’s alright with you.”

“It is… agreeable.”

“When I first moved to Kirkwall, I was having panic attacks all the time. I had friends that helped me. How long have you been having them? Have you talked to anyone about this?”

“The accident happened and then I got sent to Kirkwall. I – I don’t know anyone.”

“Shit. Okay, then… you’re not a Watcher. I’m not a mage. You’re Fenris, I’m Hawke. You know me. We’re going to go out for drinks and you’ll know more people. You’re not alone anymore. In fact, you’re pretty stuck,” she says, her hand wrapping around his wrist, over the red mark. She can feel the trembling subsiding, his quick breaths becoming longer, stiff limbs relaxing. She reaches for his hood, pulling it over his head, hands at the strings, hearing a muffled shout as she pulls on them.

She leans back and laughs, as he re-adjusts his glasses, freeing his face from the hood. His hair is crooked, pointing in every direction, and he desperately smooths it down. He sits across from her, his legs crossed, hers extended and one leg on either side of him. He breathes deeply, his shoulders hunching, playing with the hem of his jeans. “Thank you Hawke.”

“Like I said, I know what a panic attack feels like. No fun at all.” They stay silent like that for a few moments until Hawke sighs. “Look, I know I’ve been an ass. I’m just naturally predisposed to dislike anything to do with Templars. I’ve been lucky but you hear things about Watchers… Templars covering it up. I don’t ever want to be some page to be covered up. I realize you’re doing your best and I haven’t, ha, I’m not an easy assignment.”

“You’re right. I had a portfolio and you had nothing. I wouldn’t have liked me either,” he gives her a weak smile. She snorts and smiles back.

“Smiles _do_ look good on you,” she tells him. She stands, brushing off her clothes, before extending a hand down to him. “You’ll like the Hanged Man. We’ll eat, drink, and be merry!” She proclaims, as she pulls him to his feet. He chuckles and resists the urge to hide his smile.

* * *

When they reach the Hanged Man that evening, he can hear the crowd even without opening the door. It is warm inside, and just as crowded as Fenris guessed. There’s overwhelming noise, the loudness of drunken conversation, but Hawke doesn’t seem to mind. She weaves her way through tables and people alike, turning occasionally to check that Fenris is still behind her. Dimly lit and smelling of… something, combined with the crowd and the noise, Fenris is ready to turn and leave. As if sensing his hesitation, and without needing to turn to find him, he feels Hawke’s fingers curl around his hand. She urges him forward, leading him towards a table in the back, sectioned off from the rest of the bar.

He can see Anders, along with Nathaniel, the two of them talking to a dark-skinned beauty and a dwarf with more hair on his chest than Fenris had ever seen. The woman is laughing, eyes bright and happy, and when she sees Hawke, she instantly rises to her feet. “You made it!” Her hand slips from Fenris’s as Hawke moves towards her, wrapping her arms around her. “I was so happy when Anders texted and said you were coming by.”

Hawke laughs, one arm still around the woman’s waist. “How could I resist the watered down piss?”

“I take offence to that,” the dwarf says. Hawke sits opposite the dwarf at the other end of the table, while Fenris takes a seat beside her and the other woman.

“Fenris, you know Anders and Nate. You’ve met – well, seen – Isabela before,” the dark skinned beauty bats her eyelashes and waves at him, “and at the end is Varric. Owner of this fine establishment.” Varric grunts.

“Bought this place for shits and giggles. Saved it from shutting down. Now I’m like a proud mom whose friends cannibalize my child.”

“Free booze is hard to resist when it’s offered,” Anders pipes up. Nate nods, Isabela agreeing wholeheartedly, already a small circle of mugs shared between the three of them. Hawke laughs, leaning forward, resting her chin on her hand. It is easy to see the affection she has for those at the table, her friends, and Fenris berates himself when he feels the envy in his belly. He barely knows her, she barely knows him, so how could he expect to be looked at as a friend?

“What are you drinking?” Hawke asked, drawing Fenris out of his brooding.

“I-ah, I like wine,” he tells her. She raises her hand in the air, attracting the attention of a waitress.

“The usual for me Norah, and the finest wine you think I can afford,” she grins as she orders the drinks. Hawke is a bright star of laughter, even more so after their drinks arrive. She is loud, boisterous as the rest of the crowd, and taller than most of them. So Fenris shouldn’t have been surprised when an attractive man appears by her side, flirtations falling from his mouth. He can’t help but glower. He notices he’s not alone in this, Anders fixing the man with a glare.

Hawke is ignorant of this, still smiling, still laughing. “Can I get your number?” The man asks and that’s when Fenris rises from his chair. He leaves behind his wine glass, thrice emptied, and meanders, looking for the bathroom. Instead, he finds himself in a hallway and sighs, pinching his brow together. It’s empty, filled with boxes, the emergency exit neon sign hanging above a doorway.

That’s how she finds him, that’s how she corners him, a smile on her face, backing him into the wall, her hand beside his head. “How bad is your eye-sight anyway?” She asks, reaching for his glasses. When she pulls them off, she looks not at his frames, the glass, but keeps on looking directly into his eyes. “Why is someone like you working for the Templars?”

“Someone like me?” She’s so close to him, not even a step between them, and his glasses are still in her hands. She thinks for a moment, pursing her lips, her head moving back and forth as she chooses how to answer. Eventually, she breaks out into a grin and she leans down close to him, her face practically touching his.

“Someone so cute.” His ears flatten with embarrassment, the tips turning red, and he looks away from her, his hands pressed against the wall. “You’re not like those bastards.”

“You know what I’ve done.”

“You said it was an accident.” He wants his glasses back, but she’s spinning them in her hand, carefully twirling them, and he doesn’t reach for him. “I believe you,” she says. For some reason, that only makes his cheeks go pink. She smiles at that, giving a pleased huff at the sight of it. She reaches for him, places his glasses down on his face. Slowly, after a few blinks, she comes into focus.

“Sorry, I’m a little – haha, you know.” He knows. He is too. “I know we said hands-off, but,” his back goes rigid when he feels her hands at his waist, sliding underneath his shirt. His hands move instantly to her arms, holding her in place, even as her head knocks against his, her forehead pressed against him. “Hmm, you really don’t like it?” Her hands are warm, soft against his skin. He almost groans at the feeling, at her being so close, enough to count every freckle on her face. Maker, how long had it _been_?

“Did you give that man your number?” Fenris asks her instead.

“Andraste’s tits, no. Not a real one, at least,” she says and he sighs with odd relief, his grip relaxing on her arms. “Shit, it would be easier if you weren’t so – so – _nice_. And cute,” she says again. “I wish you weren’t a Watcher. _My_ Watcher.” She steps away from him, stretching with her arms above her head as she groans. His hair is disheveled from being against the wall, messy in front from where she was pressing against him. She steps away from him and smiles over her shoulder, “ready for the bus ride home?”


	4. Going Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know,” she says, “I’ve had most people’s life stories after one day. It’s been more than a week and I still barely know you.”

He turns off the alarm, before it has a chance to even ring. He stares at the blank ceiling, his head pounding with displeasure. Fenris rubs the space between his brows with one hand, reaching for his glasses with the other. Putting them on does nothing to ease the headache. Too much wine, goaded on by Hawke and the others. He knew his limits and he was foolish to break them. Still… the headache was a fair price to pay for the freedom to drink and enjoy himself without any other repercussions.

Hawke had leaned against him on the bus the whole way home, smiling and humming, kicking her feet whenever she had the opportunity. Before they had left, she had cozied up to each and every one, giving them deep hugs and a kiss on the cheek. He thinks of the moment in the hallway and can only surmise that it was a _Hawke_ thing. A need to touch. He was nothing special.

When he sits up, the world spins. There’s a nasty taste sitting at the back of his throat, but it’s nothing brushing his teeth and a glass of water can’t fix. When he opens the door, making his way to the bathroom, he finds the mirrors already steamed over. Hawke has clearly come and gone. He spends longer than he means to in the shower, the water steaming hot, his eyes closed and simply enjoying the feeling of warmth on his skin.

He traces the tattoos on his arm, the white-blue that bleeds into red. His hand clamps over his wrist. It’s silent, warm not from the water but Hawke’s nearby presence. If it were colder, he would know she was farther away. He’s still not used to the thrumming that pulses through it whenever Hawke deigns to use her magic. Use it she does, for this and that, little buzzes of power that burns through his wrist.

Fenris holds his hand in front of him, his wrist, and stares at the red binding. A shackle. One not necessarily of his own choosing. He squeezes his hand into a fist and focuses on finishing showering. Once he feels he has scrubbed the Hanged Man firmly off of him, he closes the taps and reaches for the towel Hawke left for him. It smells of lavender and he briefly thinks that it must be what Hawke smells like.

He dresses in green because – _green looks good on you_ – and the tips of his ears go slightly red. He pulls the shirt off, in favor of one that’s black. He bunches the green one into a ball and throws it into the closet. It hits the wall with a soft thump, then falls to the floor. It was better when Hawke was some stranger off the street. A stranger who interfered on his behalf and returned his bag. He could ask that stranger to dinner. He could pretend he was someone else with that stranger. With Hawke, he could not.

Fenris adjusts the glasses on his face, picks at still damp hair, and sighs. There’s a small hum in his wrist and the binding supplies him immediately with the answer. Force magic. He rubs the space between his brows once again, and tries to ignore the pounding between his temples. Flipping her damn phone again, he guesses. His footsteps down the stairs are heavier than he means them to be, too tired and sore to be light on his feet.

It gives Hawke warning that he’s coming and she skids into view at the bottom of the stairs, her hands on either side of the walls, trapping him there. “Fenris!” she practically shouts this, “do you know how to make pancakes?” She’s dressed in black jeans again, a baggy grey sweater, with a white collared shirt underneath. She looks comfortable, with no sign of a hangover whatsoever. Fenris knows she drank more than he did.

“How do you not know how to make pancakes?” He grumbles. She smirks and her arms drop to her sides, allowing him to pass. She follows him into the kitchen, watching as he contemplates the pantry.

“Do you have a headache?” she asks. The look he gives her is all the answer she needs. “I can fix that for you,” she says, reaching out, the marking thrumming with power. He backs away from her, leaning against the pantry door, one hand warding her away.

“No, thank you Hawke.” The thrumming stops and her expression rolls from confusion to amusement. She sighs and shakes her head, then opens one of the higher up cabinets.

“I know I have pain pills around here somewhere.”

“No, thank you again. I am fine as I am.”

“Fine, oh great stubborn one,” she says, closing the cabinet and shrugging her shoulders. She moves to the dining room, where she perches herself on the table, able to see over the partition and watch Fenris at the stove. She crosses her legs, planting an elbow on each knee, and rests her chin in between her hands.

“Of all things, why cooking?” she asks suddenly, when the batter is starting to bubble in the skillet. His back is to her, and he lightly brushes the back of his neck where his hair ends. He flips two pancakes, and then sighs.

“It was not my choice, really,” he tells her.

“You got parents who pushed their dreams onto you or something?”

“Something like that.” Hawke cocks her head as she watches the subtle way his shoulders tense, his elbow locked into holding up the spatula. She’s starting to be able to read him, as long as one knew where to look. She hops down from the table, sliding up behind him, startling him when she bends over and puts her head on his shoulder.

“Do you actually hate cooking?” She asks, her chin biting into his shoulder. He smiles and shakes his head.

“One of the few things I enjoy, actually,” he says, sliding the finished pancakes onto a plate and adding the rest of the batter onto the skillet. He goes stiff as a board when she wraps her arms around his waist. She sighs, rubbing her face into his shirt.

“Mhmm, you feel nice,” she murmurs, and at that, his shoulders relax slightly. “You know,” she says, “I’ve had most people’s life stories after one day. It’s been more than a week and I still barely know you.” He chuckles at that, and she smiles brightly at the sound of his laughter.

“No doubt you pestered them until they relinquished everything,” he says, turning off the stove and carefully detaching her from him, shoving a plate of pancakes at her. She holds the plate tightly, grins and nods.

“I tend to bother people until they give up. I mean, you already know everything about me, it’s only fair. Right?” They sit at the dining room table together, Hawke smothering her pancakes in syrup.

“I know details. Things written on a piece of paper. It’s not as if that qualifies as knowing you,” Fenris says, cutting his pancakes neatly. Hawke brutally tears into hers.

“There’s nothing to know about me. You’ve got the whole mysterious vibe about you. Means you’re extra interesting and I’m extra curious,” she says in between mouthfuls.

“I am from Tevinter. I left, and now I am here,” he says. She stares at him for a moment before breaking into peals of laughter.

“See! This is what I mean!” She says, pointing an accusatory fork at him. He only smiles and continues to eat.

Hawke leans over the bathroom counter, half an inch away from the mirror. She stares at herself, at the freckles on her face, at the piercings in her ears, and the gangly set of limbs. She decides she’s not unattractive. Her forehead rests against the mirror, black hair flattened against it. He likes her right? She leans back, sighing, staring at her hands.

Touching was her way of knowing a person. Isabela was soft sunshine, warm and pliable, molding around Hawke’s hands. Varric was pats on the back, a hearty slap, like a hot drink on a cool day. Anders was more a blanket fresh from the dryer, soft and comforting. Fenris was a brick wall. A brick wall that maybe disliked her? This was stupid. She growls at herself, and ruffles her hair. She barges out of the bathroom, headed for the front door.

He’s already waiting for her, jacket on and shoelaces tied neatly, bag slung over his shoulder. She’s been putting off bringing him to work. Now that she actually has to work, she doesn’t have a choice. She slips into flats and a large jacket, picking her bag up from the corner of the foyer. She locks the door behind them, and makes a mental note to get Fenris a key. Fenris sits quietly on the bus, as always, hands folded on his lap.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels hands on his ear. She chuckles, and continues to seat the earbud. Her music is… not what he was expecting. He expected music to match Hawke – unignorably loud and chatty. What he got instead was soft and flowing, gentle words behind pleasing melodies. “If you don’t like it, I can change it,” she says, but he only shakes his head.

“I like it.” She smiles brightly, and shuffles over more into him, her arm against his, their heads close together as they listen. He smells like her soap, with earthier undertones. His hands fiddle and play with his fingers, his feet firmly planted against the floor, his eyes watching the window and all the buildings that flash past. So he barely notices Hawke’s hand moving until her finger touches his nose, giving it a small tap.

“You know, you don’t have to see Kirkwall from the inside of a bus. If you want, I can give you a tour,” Hawke tells him, her hand falling back to tap at the bag on her lap. “I’ll show you all my favorite places.” Fenris chuckles.

“I would appreciate that.” Off the bus, he follows her down busy streets, past shop after shop. When she does stop, it’s in front of a relatively nondescript shop, with a large window covered in vines. The door chimes when it opens, and he’s instantly hit with warm air and the smell of flowers.

“Welcome to The Papery,” Hawke says when she turns to him. It’s a comfortable place, a small sitting area in the center, large bookshelves to one side, flowers and plants to the other. Behind the counter by the flowers is a small elf, who brightens the instant she lays eyes on Hawke. She sets down the pot she’s holding, shoving it onto the counter, before she flies around the corner and launches herself in Hawke’s arms.

“Ooh, Hawke, you haven’t been in for ages! I know you’ve seen Isabela but you haven’t come to see me! I should be so cross with you!” The elf is rubbing her face into Hawke’s sweater, her arms wrapped tight around her waist. Hawke laughs as she wholeheartedly returns the hug.

“You know why I couldn’t. Merrill, I want to introduce you to someone. This is Fenris,” Hawke says as she methodically detaches the elf, turning her to face Fenris. Merrill waves at him with a smile, but all Fenris can notice is the red band around her left wrist. Another mage, like Hawke.

“Oh! Hello! You’re much younger than all her other Watchers! What pretty tattoos,” Merrill coos as she moves towards him. Fenris takes a step back as she scrutinizes him, and is relieved when she finally breaks away. “Where did you get them? How did you do them? Why that pattern?”

“Merrill, don’t pry,” a voice sighs. The door to the back office opens, and a well-dressed man exits. He brushes back red locks of hair and adjusts the glasses on his face. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he looks much more professional than either Hawke or Merrill. He makes his way to Fenris and extends his hand in greeting.

“Sebastian. I’m Merrill’s Watcher, and the owner here. Pleasure to meet you at last Fenris,” he says. Fenris takes his hand and Sebastian immediately traps it in a firm grip as he shakes it.

“Likewise,” Fenris says.

“Don’t let Hawke scare you away from the Watchers. She’s harmless, really,” Sebastian says, looking over his shoulder to give Hawke a pointed look. Hawke shrugs her shoulders innocently.

“I wished to speak with you Sebastian, if it is no trouble,” Fenris says, as he reaches into his bag and pulls out a folder. He takes out a solitary page from said folder and presents it to Sebastian. “I do not wish to be a dead weight when with Hawke at the store. If you’re accepting resumes, here is my own. I am a dedicated worker, a pr-”

“Fenris, Fenris,” Sebastian stops him mid-sentence, grinning as his eyes scan the page, “this is certainly more than any other Watcher has ever done. Your resume is impressive. I’ve been meaning to re-open the café section of the store, and I’d need people to run it. I can easily match your hours to Hawke’s.” Sebastian laughs and claps his hand on Fenris’s shoulder. “Consider yourself hired.” Sebastian turns back to the office, telling them that he needs to arrange the details and have Fenris sign some papers, but he’d be ready for Fenris to start the next time Hawke came in.

Alone, Hawke gives him a light punch in the arm. “You sneak! You could’ve told me you were planning that! I could’ve been a reference. An excellent reference with personal connections,” Hawke winks. Fenris smiles, giving a small chuckle, and shakes his head.

“It was something I needed to do on my own,” he says. Hawke shoves her bag underneath the counter at the front, pining a name tag to the front of her sweater. Since Fenris isn’t allowed to work just yet, he follows Hawke around as she explains things. The band on his wrist thrums constantly as she moves books with her magic, from cart to shelf, putting things in their proper place. She pulls a book from the cart and gasps, calling Fenris over to her.

She waits for him, a sparkle in her eye and a book in her hands. A children’s book, one she presented to him in outstretched hands. “Look! I haven’t seen this book in ages. My father used to read it to us all the time when we were little.” He could see the title - _Have You Seen Me?_ – and underneath was a small illustration of a ghost boy with a large hat. “My sister used to beg for him to read it every single night. No other stories, just this one. Maker, my brother would whine and complain that it was the same boring thing over and over again and I’d tell him that I wanted to hear it again. Just to see Carver pout when he was outnumbered! Ah, I’m sorry. I guess I’m getting carried away over a silly book. I’m sure you don’t want to hear me talk about this,” she says, suddenly shy.

“I like listening to you speak, Hawke,” he said, suddenly aware of how small the space in between the shelves was. She’s still smiling as she puts the book on the shelf. She closes the space between them, putting a hand on his arm.

“I’m glad you’ll be working here with me,” she says, “instead of just watching me. The other Watchers would get mean if they were bored.” She pauses for a moment, looking away slightly, but when her eyes return to his, she’s smiling again. “I’ll be able to show you all my favorite books!” The rest of the day passes quickly, and soon enough, they’re back on the bus, Hawke’s music in his ear.

“You were waiting,” Fenris says quietly. Hawke turns to him, pulling the earbud from her ear in order to listen. “You were waiting to go back to the shop, to introduce me to Merrill. To see if I could be trusted around her.”

“Yes.” Hawke doesn’t hesitate. “Anders can defend himself and Nate would never let anything happen to him anyway. Merrill is more trusting than any of us. I didn’t want to see her get hurt.”

“You delayed taking me to the shop after finding out about the accident.”

“Yes.” An instant answer, again.

“I understand,” Fenris sighs. “Is there anyone else you’re hiding from me?” Hawke only smiles.

“You’ll just have to wait and see.” Dinner is spent quietly in front of the television, watching some old movie that Hawke seems to enjoy. They head to bed at relatively the same time, Hawke yawning and stretching, plodding her way to her room.

“Goodnight Fenris,” she says before she waves, and closes her bedroom door. Hours later, she emerges again, fully dressed and awake. She stands outside Fenris’s closed door and draws a flame to her fist, bright and angry. When she hears nothing from inside his room, no movement from the disturbance on his wrist, she quietly makes her way down the stairs. She locks the door behind her as she heads out into the dark streets, alone, her fists in her pockets and a frown on her face.


	5. A Fox in the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the fuck. I always thought you were just shit at healing magic. But you can’t heal, can you? Because you’re a fucking blood mage."

There’s something inherently good about the streets at night. It’s colder without the sun, but also calmer, made her less anxious. She knew where the danger would come from. Her shoulders are hunched tight together as the wind blows a cool breeze down her back. One street light is flickering, the emerging bugs of spring beginning to buzz underneath. Hawke runs a hand through her hair, brushing back errant bangs, before her hand dips back into her pocket. She’s left her phone at home.

The band around her wrist grows tighter with each step she takes. She knows it’s getting tighter for Fenris too. A Watcher and their mage were not supposed to be apart. Hawke just hopes he’ll still be sleeping when she returns. There are only a few cars on the street, too late for any real traffic, enough for Hawke to slip across the street whenever she pleases. There are puddles of muddy water by the sidewalk from heavy rains, melted snow. She takes care to avoid them.

There’s a couple walking together hand in hand, laughing as they come down the sidewalk from the opposite direction. Hawke makes herself small, steps off to the side as much as possible as they pass. There are a few others like her, walking with a purpose, eyes to the ground, silent as they pass. Neon signs buzz and blink, a letter blinking and out of life here and there. Kirkwall’s personality is different at night. Less loud. More subtle.

It’s an older jacket, black as the hoodie she’s wearing underneath. There’s an old lighter in the pocket, a remnant of a habit not-so long forgotten. She fiddles with it, running a thumb over the metal dial, clutching at the plastic. She has to remind herself not to pull at the magic that comes so easily to her. Alone, without a Watcher, a Templar could be at any corner. They would sense her magic and then it would be over. Bye bye, so long, time to go rot in the Circle.

Another run through her hair, tucking some behind her ear as she approaches the Chantry. A large, gaudy building, it stands out almost as much as the Gallows. All stone and stained glass, statues and candles, and a singular wooden door. She scowls when she sees it. She’s looked over the floorplans for the Chantry a thousand times. One entrance. What kind of fire fucking hazard was that? Anders is waiting for her, in the alley by the Chantry.

“I hate knowingly walking into traps,” she tells him as he steps to her side.

“I know,” Anders says quietly. Hawke smiles, putting her hand on Anders’s back.

“It’ll work out. It’s us. Everything always goes our way, right?” Anders barks out a short laugh as he reaches for the handle of the Chantry doors. It’s unlocked, because of course it is, it’s a trap. He pushes it open with a creak. They slip inside, pulling the hoods over their heads. It’s quiet, a few solitary lights still on, no candles lit. It smells like old people masked by incense, and Hawke wrinkles her nose at the scent. There’s a light on the second floor, the sound of footsteps. Hawke and Anders exchange a glance.

They creep up the stairs side by side, until Anders starts taking the stairs faster, pushing himself forward. The room with the light is an office, the door slightly cracked open. Hawke wants to reach for him, tell him to wait, tell him to be careful but Anders is already at the door and pushing it open. “Karl was so certain you wouldn’t come. That you’d know it was a trap. Seems you’re stupider than he thinks you are.”

The Templar is smiling as he leans against the desk. Anders has his hands clenched into fists, practically spitting anger as he approaches. “Where’s Karl?” Hawke feels a hand on her back, pushing her further inside the room. Two other Templars, Karl between them, his wrists bound. Anders whirls, anger breaking for a moment to give way to relief at the sight of him. She gathers magic to her fists.

“Tsk tsk,” the main Templar wags his finger. “Naughty mages. I’ll be promoted when Meredith hears about this. Of course you two are part of the Underground.” Hawke is still for a moment, and then she begins to laugh. Even Anders stops to turn to look at her, confusion plain. The other Templars are shifting, with Karl’s gaze shifting between the lot of them.

“You stupid idiot,” Hawke is wiping back tears of laughter, one arm wrapped around herself as she shakes with it. “You didn’t tell anyone about your master plan?” Understanding dawns on Anders’s face. She doesn’t need magic. She simply turns, her palm out, catching one of the Templars holding Karl. She slams it into his face, his nose, and hears a distinct crack as he cries out. Blood begins to pour from his face and he lets go of Karl. Anders is on the main Templar, throwing him onto the desk.

Karl steps back, flattening his back against the wall as Hawke and Anders brawl their way through the Templars. She takes a fist to her stomach, but holds onto his wrist and drags him forward, battering him with her own blows. Anders is focused, frowning, keeping an edge of magic. Hawke is grinning, with red spattered on her face, knuckles cracked and bloody. Her edge is laughter, taking one by the shoulders and folding him over, her knee in his gut.

Anders comes away cleaner than Hawke. The most he’ll be is sore tomorrow. Hawke’s lip is split, a small line of blood down her nose. She stretches out fingers and finds her hands ache. Her ribs are most definitely bruised. She feels great, and the grin lingers. Anders moves to Karl’s side, making quick work of the handcuffs around his wrists.

“I knew you wouldn’t give up,” Karl breathes. Anders finally smiles, cupping Karl’s face, moving in for a long and deep kiss. Karl wraps his arms around Anders’s waist, holds him close. “I thought they were going to make me tranquil.”

“I’d never let that happen,” Anders swears. Hawke uses her boot to kick at some of the Templars, still out cold. She has her hands in the pockets again, scathed knuckles bleeding against the fabric. She gives them a few more quiet moments, politely turning her gaze away. Kind words, kinder touches, reassurances and laughter. She turns back to them when there’s a moment of silence.

“Karl needs to go back to the Circle,” she says quietly. Anders glares at her, Karl’s hand in his. “I’m assuming one of these is your Watcher? You need to go to the Circle, turn yourself in right now. Say your Watcher was taking you somewhere when you were ambushed. Send the Templars to the Chantry.”

“We can’t let him go back there! He’s out of the Gallows now, he can come with us!” Anders argues furiously. Karl’s shoulders slump in defeat.

“She’s right Anders. I can’t just leave. I’d be made tranquil on sight if they ever caught me. I’d spend my whole life running. If they made me tranquil, they’d be able to tear out everything I know about the Underground. About you,” Karl says, putting a hand on his shoulder, turning him back. Karl smiles bleakly, and a mournful kiss is planted.

“What about them?” Karl asks, pointing at the three downed men.

“Let me deal with them,” Hawke replies. Anders is still glaring at her, his hand trembling around Karl’s.

“I can’t just give you up like this,” he mutters.

“You’re not. Just a little bit longer. Going back to the Circle will earn me good-will. I’ll be out before you know it,” Karl tells him. Anders wraps his arms around Karl’s shoulders, buries his face in the crook of his neck. Karl closes his eyes, breathes him in. He can feel Anders’s hands shaking as they wind into his shirt, holding him desperately. It’s some time before they finally part.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says quietly as Karl moves towards the door. He smiles, pats her shoulder.

“It’s the right thing. Take care of him,” he points over his shoulder at Anders.

“I will,” she promises. Karl’s footsteps are quiet, light as he leaves. Anders points at Hawke, frowning hard, before shaking his hands in the air, then running one through his hair, the other rubbing over his mouth.

“You _know_. You know what the Circle is. You know how hard it’s been for him,” Anders doesn’t speak above a whisper. It’s how she knows he’s at his angriest.

“Better than tranquil,” she insists.

“We could have run, we could have hidden him.”

“Hid where? Gone where? The Templars are everywhere. No matter how good you think you are, you would have gotten caught eventually and then you’d both be fucked. They’ll reward him for this. Think him a good little loyal mage. We have to leave before they get here,” Hawke says, squatting down over one of the Templars.

“We’re fucked either way - they know our faces. They’re not just going to forget that,” Anders says. Hawke looks up at him, shaking her head.

“Yes they will.” There’s blood on her knuckles. There’s blood in their noses. She puts her hands on either side of the first Templar’s face. The blood swirls, grows, little bubbles of it dancing around the Templar.

“What the _fuck_. I always thought you were just shit at healing magic. But you can’t heal, can you? Because you’re a fucking blood mage,” Anders cries out. His voice is rising now, his hands in his hair, watching as she moves to the next Templar. She doesn’t reply as she scrambles their brains, erasing their memory of tonight. Onto the last.

“Why? When?” Anders is asking her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She stands, brushing her hands on her pants, wiping away the blood from her nose onto the sleeve of her jacket.

“Come on Anders. You were part of the Wardens too. I’m sure they asked the same of you. You chose to leave. I chose to accept. I did what needed to be done,” she says. His mouth gapes open and he laughs in disbelief. He shakes his head, stepping away from her.

“First Karl, now this. The things we’ve done – how much we’ve been through – I feel like I barely even know you now,” he says.

“Some things are private. It’s not like I’m bathing in the blood of virgins. Six years Anders. Six years since I’ve used it. I use it now because it needed to be done,” she says, walking towards the door.

“You can’t be serious. Just like that?”

“I’m not talking about this with you. Just forget about it,” she snaps.

“Or what? You’ll mess with my head like you did theirs?” Hawke stops in her tracks, slowly turning towards him.

“Really. That’s what you think of me,” she says coolly.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Go home Anders,” she snaps. She’s practically running down the stairs, away from him, away from the Templars, away from what she’s done. She knows it’s not but the street still feels colder. She waits across the street, sees Anders slip away. Sees the Templars pull up in an unmarked black van. Only then does she leave.

The corner store bathes the street in light. The door chimes when she enters it. The store clerk looks only mildly shocked when he sees her. She goes straight for the counter, pointing blindly at the smokes behind it. The clerk reaches for a box and slides it to her. She slides cash back at him, shoving the box in her pocket.

She opens it with shaking hands, putting one between her lips as she reaches for the lighter in her pocket. She gives it a few hard flicks, but there’s no flame. With a frustrated grunt, she throws it into the street and produces a small flicker of fire from her fingertips. She stops on the sidewalk to take a deep drag, inhaling as much as she can.

Out of practice, she doubles over coughing. “Fucking shit.” She takes the cigarette from her mouth, crushes it beneath her feet. She lights another one when she’s at her doorstep. She stands before the door, hands in her pockets, looking at the stars. She crushes this one when it’s just a nub. She puts the key in the door quietly, slipping inside.

She turns on the light in the kitchen, turns the dial on cold water, sticking her hands underneath. “Welcome back Hawke.” She closes her eyes, her head dipping. “Did you have fun?” Fenris asks as he moves beside her, arms crossed, leaning against the counter.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hope you enjoy!   
> You can always find me to chat at [ my tumblr!](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/)


End file.
